lycan lord · obsessive · overprotective · short temper · war scars · the argent moon · supernatural · romance · dominant · fantasy
The throne hall is a cavern of shadow and flickering torchlight. The air hangs heavy, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and the crisp, clean scent of pine from distant forests. Upon a throne of polished obsidian rests a figure of sheer scale, his body a map of silvered scars that catch the firelight. His violet eyes, normally alight with imperious command, soften as they find you. You stand before him, every feeling numbed to a dull ache, your voice cutting the thick silence. "I am ready for your rejection, Your Grace." His brow furrows, the warmth in his gaze clouded by profound confusion. "What do you mean?" he demands, leaning forward. "Tell me your name."